


The Unfortunate Truth in Deceit

by PBJellie, rachhell



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Anonymous Sex, Cheating, Dysfunctional Relationship, Established Relationship, M/M, Medication, Mental Illness, Sadboner, Smoking, Unsafe Sex, actor tweek, bisexual tweek, general unhappiness, get rekt craig, problematic-hot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-03-29 20:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13934511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachhell/pseuds/rachhell
Summary: Craig, having grown tired of playing second fiddle to Tweek's rising acting career, decides to act out on a momentary lapse in judgment.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my (rachhell) first collaboration, and I couldn't ask for a better, more talented writer with which to do this! 
> 
> We decided we wanted to wreck Craig on discord, and started a room of us writing bits of this back and forth to each other. We have tenative plans for the rest of the story, so stay tuned for more.

"Try to take better care of your things," Craig huffed as he handed the spare key to Tweek.   
  
"I've got, I've got a lot on my mind, Craig" he drew out his name in a way that made Craig's jaw clench. "You wouldn't understand, Craig."   
  
_Fuck you, I understand,_ Craig though, keeping his mouth shut. He was fairly certain that stress related TMJ was setting in at this point. But who gave a shit? Who gave a shit about what was happening to Craig. He wasn't a Broadway actor, not that Tweek was. No, this was his ego because of off Broadway. God forbid he ever climb any higher.

"Yeah. Okay," Craig said, with an exhale to keep himself from snapping at his boyfriend. Partner. Fiance? Whatever the fuck they were. Although, Craig supposed, it didn't quite matter _what_ their ever-changing, official label was at the moment. Not when Tweek treated him like a personal assistant-slash-chauffeur-slash-nurse that he occasionally deigned to fuck.

"If you want, you can go down to ACE and have them make a copy of it,” Craig continued, “That way, if you lose the spare, we'll have another." He knew Tweek would lose the spare, as it was the spare of however the _fuck_ many spares that came before it.   
  
"Why should _I_ have to go to ACE, can't _you_ go, Craig?" Tweek's lip curled up a bit when he spoke, as if he were addressing the help.

God, he was doing it again. He wasn't any more important that Craig. It's not like being cast in the ensemble for a show made him unable to stand in a store line without being mugged by fans. He doubted Tweek even had fans.   
  
He certainly wasn't a fan at this point.   
  
"Craig, just do it, okay? I need you to support me," Tweek complained, rubbing the toe of his brown loafer into the carpet.   
  
"I am supporting you," Craig droned, eyes sitting on a water spot on the ceiling . Tweek was supposed to treat that stain, repaint the spot, but how could he find time? How could anyone find time during their two week break from shows?

"Anyway," Tweek singsonged, like the sound of his own voice was music to his ears. Craig supposed that it probably was. Tweek had become such a self-important little prick ever since that musical he's in, the one about a couple who found love at an animal shelter, received a rave review in the Times.

Craig thought it was the dumbest musical he'd ever seen.  
  
"Anyway, don't you work today? Can you swing by Duane Reade after and grab my meds? I don't have-"

"You have all the time in the goddamn _world_ , don't give me that shit," Craig said, before he could stop himself.

"Craig, we talked about this," Tweek whined, stamping his foot like he was a toddler. Christ, Tweek was an overgrown toddler. "I need my meds or I can't function. Don't you want me to be successful? Are you trying to sabotage me?"   
  
"Tweek," Craig said, sucking in a deep breath through his teeth. "I didn't mean it like that, you know that."   
  
"I'm not a mind reader. You can't expect me to be a mind reader."   
  
"Whatever, I'll get them," Craig huffed, then dropped his voice to a whisper. "I'd hate to see what you're like without them."

"I heard that," said Tweek. He was scrolling through his phone, not even looking at Craig.  
  
Craig wanted, more than anything, for Tweek to at least just _look_ at him again, like he used to. Like he was the only person in the whole world that mattered. Loath as he was to admit it, he missed it. He missed the Tweek of years ago, when they first moved there for Tweek's grad-school classes, and Craig had all intentions of doing the same.   
  
Sometimes, things don't work out the way people plan. Sometimes you end up miserable, and working at a furniture store.

"Glad to know you don't need hearing aids too, don't think we could afford it," Craig snarked, remembering the times when he had stayed up all night with Tweek. Steadying his shaking hands as he patched up pockmarks on his fingers.   
  
"You know that the meds aren't my fault. I didn't do anything wrong," Tweek huffed, not looking up from his phone.   
  
"I think in the time you spent picking this fight you could have gotten your meds."   
  
"Oh, fuck you," Tweek shouted, shoving his phone in his pocket and flinging open the front door. "Get my meds. I am going to be late to my rehearsal."   
  
"And that would be the end of the world," Craig muttered to a closed door.

Craig clenched his hand into a tight fist, fingernails digging into his palm, and reared it back. He slowed down enough when he hit their apartment door that, on impact, it made a dull thud. There was no searing pain shooting through his hand to ground him, just the feeling of smooth wood on the side of his palm.

Shit, he couldn't even follow through with being upset? Allowing his head to droop, a tearless sob wracked through him.  
  
"Fuck you too, Tweek," he muttered to himself.

He had to hurry to get ready for work. The world would end if he was late for work, to his dead end, piece of shit job. But really, what was there to get ready for?   
  
He flung open the closet, flinching when the door knob banged against the drywall. A quick check confirmed that there wasn't a hole. He didn't need one more thing to pick up at ACE, one more project to handle while Tweek bitched in the background about how busy he was. Maybe if he did some work for a minute, he would feel less overwhelmed.   
  
But Tweek never followed Craig's advice. No. Not even when he was pacing around the room, refusing to get into the car so he could take him to the ER. There are demons, he'd moan, tracing the same pattern in the carpet.   
  
It was a miracle they got their security deposit back from that place after the racetrack like wear in the floor. Not that Craig really believed in miracles. A true miracle would be Tweek treating him like a fucking person and not a personal assistant.   
  
What was he? Siri?

He went through the motions of showering and slapping on some face cream in a futile effort to fight his emerging worry-lines and the seemingly permanent bags underneath his eyes. Looking in the mirror for any significant amount of time was something he’d been trying to avoid, as of late. He didn’t feel attractive. He didn’t feel wanted. And he didn’t really like to think about not feeling either of those things; it made him regard himself as more of a failure to concentrate on it. He put on his shirt, his stupid, constrictive tie, and, with a heavy sigh, his name tag. _Craig Tucker, Sales Specialist,_ it read. It was mocking him.

Who needed a sales specialist, anyways? You're buying a mattress, not a fucking car. He couldn't tell you what the mattresses were made out of, probably like foam or cotton or some shit. He mostly just rang people up, bored expression painting his face, and made change.  
  
He didn't even move the damn mattresses. No, that was above his pay scale.   
  
He grabbed his keys, the same keys he had had since they moved into the place, because he wasn't a scatterbrained egomaniac, and locked up the apartment. Some days, in the past, a distant past, Tweek would implore him to check the door again, just once more, to be sure. He hadn't been like that in a long time, but it's not as if he became less needy.   
  
If anything, the demands mounted. Demands for Cherry Garcia, not Chocolate Cherry Ice Cream, how could you fuck this up Craig, it was such a simple task, I would do it myself but I just haven't the time, why aren't you supporting me, don't you want me to be successful, famous, talented, happy?

And there was never, fucking _never_ a time, at least in the last couple of years, that Tweek would ask Craig if _he_ was happy. If he was doing what _he_ wanted to do with his life. It was probably quite obvious that the answer was a resounding _fuck no._ At least, it would be, if Tweek would pay him any regard whatsoever.   
  
Even though he was puffing slightly from taking the stairs out of their fourth-floor walkup as quick as he could, Craig still lit up a cigarette almost the moment he stepped out of the door, attracting a scowl from one of the hipster kids that seemed to be roaming their neighborhood more than usual. What the fuck were hipsters doing in a Jersey suburb? Had the city really become that expensive? In his head, he flipped her off. Throwing the middle finger at people who pissed him off was a habit that he'd either outgrown, or chose not to indulge in. He knew that part of it was because Tweek told him that it was immature. _What would people think, Craig?_

Craig had never asked Tweek what would people think when he was organizing the theater candy boxes at Walmart, not even once. No, he said, don't worry about it, if you have to fix them, then you have to fix them. He had even dipped down, feet kicking into the isle, to grab a box of Hot Tamales that Tweek couldn't reach. He was supportive.   
  
How dare he try to play it off as if he wasn't? How dare he! Craig shoved his key into the door of his car, since Tweek had lost the key fob when it had been his, and climbed in. He had to turn the car four times before it sputtered to life, but that was fine. It was fine that Tweek took the nice, new car, every time, even if the payments were in Craig's name, because it's not like the theatre is steady money, you know that.   
  
Every breath he took was in the role of supportive cast to Tweek fucking Tweak, chorus boy. That's what he was. A chorus boy that occasionally got bit parts. Tweek referred to himself as an up and comer, but what that meant was that he was no one now.   
  
He certainly wasn't too busy to pick up his own damn medications.

The drive to work was automatic. The resultant _day_ at work was automatic. If he was asked to pick a notable moment from a Friday at that prison of a furniture store, he wouldn't have been able to do so. It was just like any other fucking day, full of leathery-tan women from the Shore who thought they were swanky because they drove out to the burbs to get a damn couch, and teenagers who were messing around on the furniture. Craig knew it was his job to tell them to fuck off, but he always let it slide.

Nostalgia was a hell of a thing. It was weird that seeing those groups of asshole kids in his store put their feet upon the displays and come dangerously close to spilling their Icees upon the upholstery made him think that, hell, maybe Tweek wasn't so bad. Weren't they doing the same things, not ten years ago? Maybe they could go back. Maybe he could get it back, somehow.

And if the universe ever gave signs, this was it. A text lit up his phone as he sat in the car, chain smoking as he waited for traffic to die down.   
  
_Tweek_   
_meet me at the bar, 7ish?_   
  
Craig didn't text beck, opting instead to pull of out of the parking lot, and race his way through the mess of cars. They only went to one bar, and even though Tweek was not supposed to drink, it was his favorite. Craig couldn't be bothered either way.   
  
But being invited by Tweek, especially after their falling out this morning, helped reaffirm his commitment. He was with Tweek for a reason, even if he had temporarily lost sight of that reason. Everyone had rough patches, he reminded himself as he was stuck in stand still gridlock.   
  
This was just a rough patch, a trying time, and they'd look back on it when they were old and smile, remembering how they held it all together. Maybe Tweek would even thank him, thank him for putting up with his sanctimonious bullshit until he could get it together.

* * *

 

 

Tweek wasn't there.  
  
Ten texts to Tweek's phone, all of which went unanswered, and three calls, that all went straight to voicemail.... Craig was on his third gin and tonic, and Tweek never showed.   
  
Shouldn't he have been worried? Didn't normal people, if their mentally ill, long-term significant other failed to show up for a date and turned off their phone, assume the worst? If he _cared,_ wouldn't he be panicking, calling Tweek's rehearsal space, or at least shooting off a text to Tweek's shitty, self-important actress friend Brenda?

He wasn’t worried.  
  
He drained his drink. "I'm not closing out my tab, I'm just smoking," he said to the bartender.

The bartender nodded, never bothering to look at him in the face. Reminiscent of his relationship, he thought bitterly. Or maybe the alcohol thought bitterly, it was hard to tell. There were thoughts, and they were certainly very bitter.

He wasn’t alone when he stepped outside. He wanted to be alone. He _didn’t_ want to be alone. He didn’t know what he wanted, other than a damn cigarette.   
  
"You're new around here," a blond man in tight jeans, tight enough to see the bulge of his penis, not that Craig was staring, chucked. "I love to see fresh meat when I get a chance."   
  
"I'd love to see my fucking date," Craig spat, struggling to light his cigarette. The one that Tweek told him he should quit, because it'd make him look old, and it was a waste of money. Maybe Tweek made him look old and was a waste of money, he never even thought of that. At least cigarettes never got mouthy. No, they were just stubborn in lighting sometimes, fighting ignition by positioning themselves against gusts of wind.   
  
"Let me help you," the man said, cupping his hands around Craig's cigarette. But really, he didn't give a damn about the smoke at this point, no, he was much more fixated on this man's, whose hair was tamable, hands gently caressing his face. To block the wind, clearly, nothing other than that, even if the man was smiling at him.

"I'm not new," Craig said, taking a deep inhale. Despite knowing the smoke was poison, he felt cleansed of at least a few worries as soon as the first drag hit his lungs. "We come here a lot. Me and my _date,_ " he said, sure to emphasize _date_ in a way which made it evident he was, in fact, not single. Or, did it? He didn't say boyfriend, or fiance, or, hell, husband or anything... did he _want_ this guy to know he was attached? He wasn't so sure that he did.   
  
Those thoughts had to have been the alcohol talking, but Craig knew he wasn’t drunk.

"I'm not new, either," the man said, finally dropping his hands. What kind of creep keeps contact like that, after the cigarette was lit? What kind of creep was Craig to wish he'd put his hands back? "Got a name?"   
  
"Doesn't everybody?" Craig snorted, taking another drag.   
  
"I'm sure some folks don't," the man joked. "Sometimes names aren't important, you know? Sometimes other things take priority."   
  
"Does that usually work for you?" Craig laughed. The cigarette dropped out of his mouth. He moved to stomp it out, to release his aggression on something, but before he could, the man, the nameless man, jumped at the opportunity.

He should have pushed him off. He should have shoved him away and spat _fuck you_ or some other choice phrase toward the man and closed out his tab and taken an Uber home to his _partner_ .   
  
He didn't.   
  
Those thoughts crossed his head for but one dizzying split-second, long enough that he didn't notice when their lips met, only that they had, and that the man tasted like he smoked more than Craig, and like he'd had too many beers.

They kissed for a few moments, Craig sinking into the touches in the small of his back. Tweek didn't do that, not anymore. No, kissing wasn't like that, not between them. It was clinical, robotic. Kissing had become a thing that they did because they lived together. Because they ought to.   
  
Kissing this man ignited something in his stomach. A warm ball of pleasure sank down as the man dipped his hands lower, cupping his ass and squeezing. Had kissing Tweek ever been like this? Surely, it had.   
  
"Still don't have a name?" The man asked, breaking apart, breathing in little pants.   
  
"Do it again and I might remember."

The man smiled at him all dark and devilish and Craig could've sworn he felt his knees give out a little bit when the man nipped his teeth against his neck. When was the last time that had even happened? How could a nameless stranger know exactly how, where to kiss him when the person he'd been with for who the hell even knew how many years, who even _cared_ how many years, couldn't?   
  
Wouldn't.   
  
He fought back a moan when their hips collided and a hand that was stronger and more square and more calloused and just incredibly different - better - than Tweek's slid up his shirt, pulling him in closer.

"I've got a car," the man whispered, breath hot against Craig's ear.   
  
"Oh yeah?" He moaned, rubbing his hips against this man, this stranger, again. "Is that some sort of accomplishment around here?"   
  
"Want to see it?" The man asked, voice rumbling as he palmed over his dick through his pants. God, was he getting so worked up over a petting? Was he this desperate for human contact?  He nodded, maybe answering his own question, maybe answering this man and his magic hands.   
  
They moved as a unit, Craig walking backwards through a dark parking lot as they wove through the empty cars. It was quite, save for the occasional noise from Craig, mostly begs falling like hymns at his lips.  
  
"Please," he whispered as the man groped at him. _Please, make me feel good._   
  
"Please," he said louder as he snaked his hand to the button of his pants, toying with it ever so slight. _Please, say I'm special._   
  
"Please," it came out as a gasp this time, pressed against a car, he didn't check to see what kind. _Please, just fucking love me._

It was cramped in the backseat, once they'd opened the door and stumbled into the car, in a heap of long limbs, their lips only parting from rough, meaningless kisses long enough to adjust their bodies together. He wasn't drunk enough for this, to be pressed between the scratchy interior of a car that smelled like cheap pine air freshener that did hardly anything to cover up what was likely years' worth of cigarette smoke, and the unfamiliar, but so, _so_ welcome weight of another body. With this man’s rough hands yanking his shirt over his head, with his head being shoved onto the seat, right next to a large cigarette burn, and his hips hoisted into the air, Craig didn't care how drunk or sober he was, not anymore.

 _Just please, please-please-_ fucking _please_ he repeated, in his head, or aloud, maybe, like a mantra, or a spell, or a prayer.

"Ready?" The man asked, as Craig's pants were around his knees. Craig knew, at a certain level that it wasn't a question, so much as a warning.   
  
"Please," he said, keeping his voice steady, trying to mask his desperation.   
  
"God," the man sighed, pressing a finger into him with little fanfare. "You're so tight."   
  
"You like it?" _You like me?_   
  
"I'm going to wreck you," he breathed into his ear, causing Craig to curl his toes in his shoes. "I'm going to make your pretty ass beg for mercy. Beg."   
  
"Please?" Craig asked as the man pulled away, spitting on his hole. How long had it been since Tweek had done this to him? Years? In the moment, Craig assumed it had been a lifetime. A whole life had passed without him writhing beneath the control of another person.   
  
"You want me to fuck you? I'll rip you open, you want that from me?" Craig nodded, gulping as the man added another finger. "Use your words, bitch."   
  
"Please," Craig moaned. _Please, I will be your bitch. I will be your anything._

"Fuckin' better be clean," the man spat against his ear, hand gripping his hair, another slapping his ass. The man's cock slid between his cheeks, against his hole, so close, not close enough, _please, more please,_ and Craig moaned, loud, lewd, circling his hips and trying to line himself up. "Gonna fuck you up."   
  
"Yeah," Craig gasped, "Yeah, I am, I swear, just... god, _please?_ Raw me, fucking wreck me, do whatever you want." _Make me feel something. Make me feel wanted.  Make me feel alive._   
  
"Want it?" Asked the man, with a smack to Craig's ass that he hoped would be marred by sharp redness for days after. Tweek used to do that. Craig used to be right where he was now, begging and helpless with his ass in the air. If he closed his eyes, if he focused on nothing but the sting and the stretch and the friction, he could almost pretend that the nameless blond on top of him was _him,_ his Tweek.

Almost. It wasn’t Tweek, he _needed_ Tweek, he missed him, loved him. What the fuck was he _doing?_

"Not even gonna let you come," the man groaned, thrusting in and out. Tweek used to say that, to threaten him in that way. When he was Tweek's, really his.   
  
"Don't deserve it," he choked out, because in honestly, he didn't. How dare he be so horny in the back of a stranger's car? Tweek could be missing. He wasn't answering his calls and texts. He could be hurt. He could have crashed his car.   
  
"Listen when I talk to you," the man shouted, yanking his hair.   
  
"Yes sir," Craig moaned. That was Tweek's word. Tweek was sir. He was sir in the lifetime when they did this, last lifetime. Not this one.   
  
"Beg for it," the man said in a harsh whisper, stalling as he rested flush against Craig's ass. "Beg me to let you come."   
  
"Please. Please, please." Craig chanted, like it would save him. Save his relationship. Save his moral compass.   
  
"Louder, little slut," the man shouted, pulling all the way, a hand wrapping around his dick. "I'm not gonna move until you beg. Beg like the whore you are."   
  
"Please, I'm a whore. Please. Please!" He shrieked as he fell into him again. The man was still as he pumped his dick. The chorus continued. "Please." _Please let this be worth it._   
  
"You're sure whiny," the man teased as Craig felt his orgasm draw near. "You got someone at home who likes that sort of thing?"   
  
Craig felt his blood go cold as he spilled into the man's hand.   
  
"No, I don't."


	2. Chapter 2

Tweek was laying on the living room floor, eyes closed, when Craig returned home.

  
Years ago, Craig would've assumed the worst. He would have thought Tweek was in the throes of yet another attack, or, worse, a full-blown episode. However, Tweek was on his back, his arms spread out like he was on a cross, his head and knees tilted to one side of his body.... Was he seriously doing an acting warm-up right then? _Seriously?_

  
He did things like that, little displays that showed off his training, his supposed expertise. Tap-dancing in the line at those hipster coffee shops he frequented - nothing _corporate,_ nothing mainstream, ever - rolling his shoulders and adjusting his posture ramrod-perfect, like it was something unconscious that he didn’t even realize he was doing. Pretending that he was some expert on body language, like he could tell everything about a person by looking at them just because he had a bullshit degree.  
Craig knew better.

  
Tweek's stomach moved up and down in rhythmic, deep breaths, that shuddered a bit on the initial inhale and exhale. He didn’t usually shudder like that. Maybe he was anxious about something.

  
Good. He deserved to be anxious.

  
"Glad that you bothered to come home," Tweek hissed, then immediately resumed breathing. As if the exercises were more important than Crag. As if Craig were in the wrong.

  
"Glad you came to the bar," Craig replied, deciding to step over him to walk into their cluttered kitchen. There was enough space to walk around, sure, but there was something empowering about walking over him as if he wasn't there.

  
Tweek didn't bother to respond as Craig rummaged through the fridge. He settled for deli meat, rolled up, and practically inhaled, slick turkey gliding down his throat as Tweek was still in the living room breathing. If he hadn't been such an asshole, Craig might have thought he was having an episode.

  
After rolling himself into a little ball, Tweek rose to his feet with a slow, catlike stretch. He looked taller, his shoulders more square than normal, like he was forcing himself to hold his posture as confident as he could.

  
He was still tense. Craig could see it, clear as day, in the way his jaw clenched and how his posture looked pinched, like somebody was behind him, twisting a small bit of skin between his shoulder blades. Wasn't the point of that weird thing he always did in their living room to make him loosen up?

  
Craig leaned against the kitchen countertop. His ass stung. While he felt ashamed, that feeling of empowerment, same to the one he felt when stepping over Tweek, coursed through him. Or was that just embarrassment? He wasn't sure, and hoped that Tweek would just go to bed, that he’d scowl at Craig and storm down their tiny hallway and curl onto his side with nothing but a curt grumble. He hoped that Tweek wouldn’t come over to him.

  
And he did anyway, of course. That's what he always did, the exact opposite of what Craig wanted. He sighed, shutting the door to the fridge with a thud.

  
"What took you so long?" Tweek asked, frowning as he stood feet shoulder width apart, like he was waiting to take a punch. Craig was mostly sober, but he'd love to be the one who had the honor of smacking him. If he were any drunker, he very well may have taken a swing.

  
"Why weren't you at the bar?" asked Craig.

  
Tweek didn't answer, either. He was staring at Craig's neck, face blank on purpose, like he was doing everything in his power to keep himself grounded - surely, he was.

  
"What," Craig asked, softly, knowing the answer. Something was _different._ His smell, his look, his… _something._

  
Craig knew why. And Tweek, Craig could tell, knew that he _knew._

  
Tweek exhaled. His hands constricted into tight fists, then uncurled, jerky and slow like a venus flytrap opening up. "Really, Craig?" he asked.

  
"Got something to say?" Craig asked, feeling a rush of contemptuous pride from the frown of Tweek's face. His partner was disappointed, upset, angry that Craig didn't come straight home, despite being invited to the damn bar. That was a funny word, _partner,_ a word that implied so many things, like togetherness, sharing, like working with each other, instead of against. Perhaps it would benefit Craig if he stopped using that word altogether.

  
"There are lots of things," Tweek sighed, looking him over once again. His hand drifted to Craig’s neck, pressing where the man had kissed him. "There are lots of things I could say."

  
"Then say them," Craig dared, taking a step closer, "Say what you want. Don't hold back on my accord."

  
"What happened to your neck, Craig?" He asked, taking a step back, like Craig was a bomb ready to go off. He was retreating. How long had it been since he’d done that, since he’d drawn into himself, backed away instead of giving into, or even instigating, their conflicts?

  
"What happened to your phone?" Craig droned back, trying to sound as emotionless as possible. He knew he didn’t. He knew he sounded just as angry as Tweek.

  
“You stink, like. Like smoke, man, and....” He twitched. Craig hadn’t seen him twitch in months. “What happened to your fucking neck, Craig?”

  
“What happened to your fucking _phone,_ Tweek?”

  
"No one sucked on it," Tweek hissed, stepping closer. "Did someone suck on your neck?"

  
"I don't know," Craig lied, running his tongue over his lips. "I got so drunk I couldn't remember. I thought you'd be meeting me."

  
"So drunk that you can't remember?" Tweek said, lips curling in a grimace.

  
"That's what I said, isn't it?" Craig taunted, bridging the distance between them.

  
"You were so drunk that you couldn't remember, and you decided to drive home," Tweek spat. He reached out, again, to press his thumb against what Craig assumed was an obvious hickey, or bite mark, hard enough for Craig to wince. "Real, that's _real_ classy of you."

  
Something absolutely _was_ different. It wasn’t the way Tweek was behaving - no, he'd been an asshole for going on years - but the way he was carrying himself. It almost looked like he'd gone on a run, and decided to hastily change back into his street clothing without taking a shower, or brushing his hair. His shirt was buttoned crookedly, something Tweek hadn't done since high school. He didn’t smell like himself. Underneath the coffee and the subtle pine of his cologne, there was a hint of something musky and entirely alien, and something sweet, like marshmallows, or flowers, or... perfume.

  
Yep. Fucking _perfume._ That fucking asshole.

  
Craig inhaled, sharply, through his nose, either to reaffirm that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, or to ground himself, keep himself from lashing out, keep their vague argument going.

  
"You fucking stink," Craig said. It was a low-effort, childish comeback, but Craig couldn't force himself to care. "Since when do you wear, I don't know, what is that? Juicy Couture? Jesus fucking Christ."

  
"I don't stink," he sneered, showing teeth, "it must have been something you picked up at the bar. Maybe from your encounter. The one you can't remember. Because you were too drunk."

  
"I have a feeling," Craig started, realizing mid-sentence that this was saying too much, "that my night didn't involve perfume. What about yours, tramp?"

  
"Tramp?" He snorted, cocking an eyebrow as he reached for Craig's shirt, hand roughly fumbling with the buttons. "You know how the girls are. They just spray things everywhere." He drew out the words, staring at Craig's mouth.

  
"I don't know," he stiffened beneath his touch as he pulled the shirt off of his shoulders. "How could I know? It's not like we talk about these things."

  
Tweek shoved him into the counter, knocking their hips together. "Cut the shit, Craig. Who'd you fuck?" With every enunciated, scolding consonant, Tweek let out a breath against Craig's ear. He pressed against him, his body against Craig's a presence, a force, a conflicting push-pull of love and disgust and humiliation and desire in the pit of Craig's stomach.

  
He licked Craig's neck, on the mark left behind by the stranger. Craig never got his name. Craig shivered. He wanted to push him away. He wanted to pack a bag, and storm out of their apartment, and never return. But he wanted Tweek, he wanted _this._ Not the man who left him sore and empty. How long had it been?

  
Still... Fuck him. Fuck him, and the girl he fucked. A fucking _chick,_ Tweek? What the fuck. Craig grabbed a fistful of Tweek's hair and sunk his teeth into the exposed length of his neck. Tweek stifled a yelp, somewhere in his throat.

  
"I could ask the same," Craig sneered. "Was she pretty? Got a thing for tits now? Want me to put on a bra and let you fondle me?" As he was saying it he remembered the time they had done exactly that. Craig in lacy panties, Tweek in all his neurotic glory, used his tongue to unlatch the bra, his hands squeezing the layer of foam inside its empty, satin cups.

  
"Is that what you did for him?" Tweek asked, eyes widening for a split second, like he was caught in headlights. He slammed their hips together again, hitting his ass against the lip of the counter. Craig tried not to wince. "Did you pretend he was me? Pathetic."

  
Craig froze. "No," he rumbled. The lie was transparent, and Tweek laughed at him - fucking _laughed,_ a stupid little high-pitched giggle.

  
Eyes focused on Craig's mouth, it looked, for a moment, like Tweek was about to kiss him, only to pull away, and yank his shirt over his head, not bothering to unbutton it.

  
"But you would, wouldn't you," he smirked, running a thumbnail over Craig's nipple. He shivered, trying to disappear beneath Tweek's gaze. "You were always a slut like that, you'd do whatever I wanted."

  
"Which is nothing," he huffed, biting his bottom lip, "You want nothing from me." He ground his hips into him again, gasping at the contact. "You don't want anything sexual from me, ever. Just errands."

  
"Who would want you," he shouted, pushing him harder into the counter. Craig had never realized how sharp the counters were in his kitchen, their kitchen. "Who would want someone who just gives it away? A slut?"

  
“A slut,” echoed Craig, softly, emotionless, under his breath. Even after as many times as they’d done this - well, not _this,_ exactly; their previous encounters lacked such bitterness and disgust and mutual disappointment - Craig was always surprised at the strength behind Tweek’s lithe hands gripping his hips, his fingers with their stubby, bitten nails digging into his flesh. He wondered if there were indents, from before, in the car, if Tweek could see, or somehow feel, where that man had latched onto him. His breath hitched and his throat felt thick, a shameful sob caught somewhere in his windpipe.

  
"My slut," it rumbled out of Tweek's throat, like something feral. Craig only nodded. His eyes trained on a half-peeled lemon, another messy piece of garbage in their messy apartment in their messy _life,_ after he was spun to face away from Tweek. There was a draft as a jerky motion pulled down his pants, letting them pool around his knees.

  
Tweek snorted, whispering to himself as a zipper unzipped. Craig anchored his hands on the countertop, bent in half in preparation. It dug into his stomach, grounding him in the moment.

  
"Next time, ah, at least... Ngh!" Craig felt Tweek's body stiffen against his back as he half-suppressed a full-body tremor which Craig, despite everything, saw as a sort of sick, twisted victory. Tweek hadn't allowed any of the twitches or tics that were once routine to best him in, fuck, Craig didn't even _know_ how long. Was _this_ what it took for Tweek, as he once knew him, to return? Craig was unable to hold back a hollow chuckle, which swiftly turned into a quavering moan as Tweek twisted his fingers into Craig's hair, pulling back his head to expose the long length of his stranger-marred throat.

  
"Next time, at least fucking clean yourself out after you're done whoring around," Tweek hissed, before sinking his teeth onto Craig's neck.

  
"Unf," was all that Craig got out, and he was afraid it sounded too much like uh-huh, like an agreement with Tweek. He didn't even know if Tweek was clean. How much soap did it take to get girl off your dick?

  
Lord knows Tweek probably rawed her. He probably had a disease. This girl, this whore, probably went out hunting for switch hitters all the time. He wondered if she knew he liked his asshole played with as they fucked. She probably didn’t; she probably just laid there.

  
They probably didn't even do it standing up.

  
"Hypocrite," Craig grunted, just able to find his voice which was hoarse and gravelly, at least at first; but, as Tweek began to stroke the sore, still-relaxed pucker of Craig's hole with one of the same deft, spindly fingers that had probably been inside _her,_ whoever _she_ was, Craig's tone changed into something needy and desperate, something whiny and stupid that he couldn't control because Tweek was there, right where Craig wanted - needed - him. "Hypocrite," he repeated, panting and arching his back into Tweek's hand, "Fucking _hypocrite,_ you, mm, god, you...."

  
"I can't hear you," Tweek half laughed, pressing his finger a little farther and harder, overshooting his mark intentionally.

  
"Please," Craig rasped, hips tilting, as if the positioning wasn't intentional. Tweek was toying with him, like an animal of prey. And here Craig was, splayed open on the kitchen counter letting him.

  
"Please what," Tweek spat. With neither fanfare nor warning, he shoved another finger inside. It wasn't to tease, or to benefit Craig, as Tweek spent no time favoring his prostate with the deliberate presses and strokes. He moved his fingers quickly, in some uncomfortable, unneeded twisting-scissoring motion. “Look how, hnn, open you are. How sloppy you’ve been.”

  
It wasn't in the name of preparation. Both knew full well that Craig didn't need it. Both knew why.

  
This was a _lesson._

  
"Fucking slut," Tweek added, as an afterthought, twisting his wrist, “Slut, fucking, fucking _whore._ ”

  
And, something snapped, inside of him. How dare he try to teach him a lesson? How fucking _dare_ he? Tweek cheated. He cheated first, surely he did. He bet that hussy was beneath him at least twice a week.

  
“Not like you are,” he muttered, gritting his teeth.

  
“What,” Tweek laughed, “What did you say?” He had to have known, had to have heard.

  
"Not like you are," he repeated, louder, "I’m not a slut like you are. Fuck me or don't. I'm not some dumb bitch, _ah_ -" his breath hitched as Tweek pressed into his prostate, "Dumb, mm, bitch, begging for foreplay."

  
He was, though, he _was_ and he wanted it and Tweek knew it, and Tweek didn’t give it, of fucking course he didn’t; why would he? Craig gasped as Tweek extracted his fingers, leaving him empty, but moaned, high and hopeless like the dumb-slut-stupid-idiot- _bitch_ he knew he was, when he felt Tweek’s erection slide against him, and something, olive oil, or something, because they didn’t keep lube in the kitchen - in fact, Craig wasn’t even sure where their lube was, at that point, if the even had it in the house or if Tweek had taken it, left it somewhere, with some _one_ \- dripping onto, into him.  
  
  
"You're the only dumb bitch I fuck.” Hot breath ghosted against Craig’s ear, and his toes curled as Tweek entered him.

  
Craig's stomach twisted itself into an anxious, disgusted knot, a feeling much more powerful than the feverish wave of familiar pleasure shooting down his legs and up his spine. _The only dumb bitch,_ which meant that _she_ wasn't, which meant... fuck, _fuck_ , it meant nothing _good_ , but then Tweek dug his hands into Craig's hips, hard enough to bruise, hard enough for it to _hurt_ , and jerked his hips into a harsh, deep thrust, and Craig didn’t think of her.

"Oh, fuck," Craig keened, dropping his cheek onto the cold granite of their chaotically messy countertop, "Please."

  
"You're my bitch," he said, thrusting in and out, like he was asking for the salt at dinner. _This is a fact._

  
Craig felt inclined to agree beneath his touches. He nodded, cheek sliding across the counter, lubricated by a cold sheen of sweat. He _was_ Tweek’s bitch. He was a bitch who let people - this person who he loved, who he would never, ever, no matter what stop loving because they were two halves of a whole, because he wouldn’t feel complete, wouldn’t feel _anything_ without him, _his_ person, his love-no-matter what - walk all over him.

  
"My bitch," Tweek growled.

  
"Yours." The word squeaked out against Craig’s will.

  
"Shut up," Tweek hissed. He brought his hand down, harshly, in a stinging slap upon the left cheek of Craig's ass, and then the right. The noise echoed around their kitchen, ricocheting off the walls and back into Craig's ears. Cock throbbing, neglected and achingly hard between his legs, he whimpered.  
  
  
Tweek smacked him again. “Never,” he hissed, “ _Never,_ it’s not going to happen again, not _ever_.”  
  
  
Was it wishful thinking that there was something mournful in his voice?

  
“Never,” Tweek repeated, and his hands were on Craig’s throat, and buried in his hair, tugging, pulling; and, when he latched his teeth onto the back of his neck, in a place that would surely be visible even when Craig was wearing his daily, stifling dress shirt, Craig had to bite his lip and keep his eyes open, looking at that lemon, at their growing pile of final-notice medical bills stacked by the coffee maker, at anything at all to keep from crying out or maybe just fucking _crying;_ he wanted to fucking _cry._ He’d lose it, and maybe Tweek would hold him, he would hold Tweek and everything would be back to normal and maybe they would love each other again.  


Tweek sped up. “Never again,” he whispered, like it was a mantra, slamming himself into Craig and, without warning, Craig felt his eyes twist shut, and an exploding-flash of heat start in his belly and expand. His limbs felt like crackling firewood as he was wracked with joyless release and tearless sobs.  
  
  
"God,"Craig cried through clenched teeth, head thrown back as he came. He whimpered as Tweek continued. Tweek wasn't finished, so Craig wasn't finished. That was a fact. “Oh, fucking _god,_ please," he cried again, trying to even out his breathing.

  
"Told you to shut up," Tweek said, all rushed and breathy, and reached for Craig's spent, but still erect cock. Craig cried out, not even attempting to restrain himself by keeping quiet from the sudden contact, which bordered on painful in his sensitivity after his sudden, surprising orgasm. "Holy, hnn.... You, ngh, you fucking came, didn't you? I didn't even touch you, and you fucking _came._ " Underneath all of the harshness, Tweek sounded almost impressed.

  
"Yeah," he moaned, bucking into, or was it away from, his touches. Craig rested his face back on the granite, focusing on the cold surface against his skin.

  
Tweek's thrusts became almost panicked. Desperately he moved, without any real pattern. Craig bit his lip, but it did nothing to keep him quiet.

  
"You, hng," Tweek gasped, tightening his grip in Craig's hair and dropping his head to rest upon Craig's shoulder after a hard, drawn-out lick along the back of his neck, "You're, god, you're _mine._ "

  
Craig shut his eyes tighter, as tight as he could, trying to hold back both the tears threatening to well up in the corners, and the desperate, keening moans, but when Tweek slammed into him and wrapped a hand around his neck, he was unable to do either.

  
"Say it," breathed Tweek.

  
"Nuh-uh," was all he could get out in between heavy pants. Part of him didn’t want to give Tweek the satisfaction, and the rest of him was off on another plain of existence, reduced only to the sensations he was feeling.

  
He didn't want it to be over, not really. But, then, Tweek was shuddering atop him, moaning and panting, his body jerking and he was whispering something Craig couldn’t quite make out but hoped against hope was a declaration of love or, at the very least, apology. As Tweek collapsed, pinning Craig between his skinny torso and the cold counter, Craig whispered, “Yours.”

  
He was gently turned around, and pulled upright. Tweek’s eyes were wet when he buried his face in Craig’s shoulder, and shuddered.

  
“I love you,” Craig choked out, “I love you, _love you,_ love you. So much”  


“I’m sorry,” Tweek said, and let out a shaky breath that tickled Craig’s ear and made him shiver. Tweek was twitching. He was vibrating. It was just like before. “God, I’m _so_ sorry.”

  
Craig swallowed. He straightened his back, and he pulled away, and he pulled up his pants. “Sleep on the couch,” he whispered.

Without a second glance, he strode to their bedroom, and locked the door behind him.

 


End file.
